Traps
by Oeskathine
Summary: If you are a compassionate person, making hard choices is always traumatic. Add vague divine visions of possible future events to the mix, and the question arises: is it wrong to punish a person for the crimes they are yet to commit? The Captain of Crossroad Keep is about to make a very immoral decision. Rated M for language, depictions of intimacy and disturbing ambivalence.
1. Chapter 1 Ingrid

Disclamer: I own nothing in this world. Even the atoms in my weird head are rented stardust. Bioware claims to own Bishop and Casavir and Neverwinter Nights; good luck to them. As for Ingrid, I thought I owned her; it turned out that she owned me. So, yeah:

* * *

**Chapter 1. Ingrid**

Early morning saw him standing in the shadow of the castle wall and watching the assembling riders. Bishop was bored and restless enough to seek any entertainment he could get here, at this too peaceful, too perfect and too boring Crossroad Keep. The smithy was still silent, and the inn was locked, but the fields were already full of activity, and the castle had grown alive at the first light. Yesterday their scouts reported a large group of orcs descending from the mountains into the valley in the east, and the Lady of the Castle ordered the cavalry to ride out and deal with them today. Horses sniffed the air and nickered, people shouted hello and exchanged pointless remarks about the raid, children ran around on small errands to fetch this or that.

Bishop bit into the apple he had been holding and leaned against the wall. Casavir emerged from the crowd, strode to his horse (_what a glorious, monstrous beast, to carry all this iron_) and started checking the straps meticulously. Bishop watched his hands and could discern nothing from them. A golem of a man. Back straight, shoulders rigid, every motion focused and precise, every step heavy and measured, face determined and carefully blank. Of course, he would lead the raid, the loyal dog. It's been three years since their mismatched freak circus moved into Crossroad Keep, and Bishop had trouble finding anything new to taunt the paladin with. Casavir just did not change at all. He did not even speak to him most of the time, just glared contemptuously and listened to his mockery with silent dignity.

Bishop could smell that Casavir enjoyed this kind of settled castle life. He enjoyed being a mere servant. He enjoyed riding in the vanguard of Grey Cloaks, bringing heads of unfortunate gang leaders to his Lady, following orders and giving orders. He seemed to enjoy all the things Bishop hated, and that made Bishop dislike the paladin even more.

He hated so many things about this grounded sort of adventuring that he did not have enough fingers to count them. Very often, he wanted to pack his bags and leave first thing in the morning. He always stayed, and he despised the reason that made him linger. Ingrid. Lady Captain Ingrid, as he was expected to call her now. Nothing tied him to the castle, no duty and no debt now, except this unfinished business that he could not get out of his mind: he wanted her, and she was out of his reach.

It had started as a game. He spoke his mind whenever she asked him anything, and it was always indecent. Yes, I can use my daggers and rush into the fray, but I rather prefer my longbow and the better view of your ass from back here. Oh, I can make a fire in this wind, don't doubt my abilities, Ingrid dear, but why bother with a fire if I am so hot and could keep you warm all night? Ah, the loot is mine and there are some interesting trinkets indeed, but as an honest dragon I can share them with a maid of my choice, so which jewels do you want? She never blushed and she was quick to bite back, and her retorts were _funny_, and the paladin fumed like a big metal kettle, heat creeping up his cheeks until he was boiling and blew up, so it was a complete victory on all fronts.

However, she kept taunting back and nothing happened. First, she slapped his hands off and kept him at arm's length, and then there was no way to try and lay his hands on her any more. No picking up firewood in a grove uphill, no night watches – spent together because everybody refused to be his watch partner. Always a crowd, always the castle, the sergeants, the soldiers, the paladin. He grew to take notice of everything her body did. And wasn't it a body to look at. He had noticed her the moment she entered that lousy tavern of her 'uncle'. She was tall and confident, with short dark hair that curled down her neck naughtily, with perfect, very pale skin that almost glowed in the dim light. Everyone could see that she was slightly otherworldly, but Ingrid claimed otherwise and explained her aura by echoes of the magic she practiced. The company she kept was even more intriguing – dwarfs, elves, a tiefling and a paladin together, of all creatures of Neverwinter. He felt an itch of curiosity at some point. He had been bored, Duncan called on his debt, and he was lured to join them and drive them crazy and apart just for the fun of it.

Now he hated and wanted her with the same passion. He hated how she always stayed behind their backs. Casavir, Khelgar and himself took on the sharp pointy things while she was chanting spells and they sizzled over their heads and into their opponents. He had to admit that magic was impressive. When a fragile wench raised her hand and a firestorm flared from her fingers, one could not call it anything but impressive. He loathed the awe it made him feel, the reflex to jerk away from magic missiles, the painful fear of being swallowed by acid clouds.

A year into their adventuring together, Ingrid concluded that her fighters needed more healing than firepower from her, and without asking any of them if they needed her sacrifice, she pledged herself to Sehanine, the elven goddess of the Moon, and followed the clerical path. Bishop hated the thrill that her soft magic gave him as it was soaked up in his skin. He hated the way the muscles in his arm stopped quivering with exhaustion when she administered her special spell for archers that she had been saving up for him until the fight became too long. He hated the way she gave them all small touches of blessing before battle, because _it was a waste_ of her raw destructive force. He hated the prickling sensation of her magic diving into his wound and knitting his flesh together – she did lay her hands on his body then, but in a completely chaste, selfless way. Most of all, he hated the transformation she had been undergoing since then.

Her service was sucking her passions out of her. Ingrid still respected good ale and a good story, she still had that approachable, unsophisticated disposition of a person from a small town, she could still be deadly in a fight, but she grew contemplative and listened rather than spoke. Even before, she had this talent of cleaning up nicely from a ragged adventurer in singed leather gloves to a regal, breathtaking being that had all noble men eating out of her palm. Now, her wild core was buried deep under all the identities and duties she took upon herself. Her wine-red tunic over the same loose grey trousers hugged her figure as deliciously as ever, but her aura of power now radiated a peaceful serenity he abhorred. They all grew five years older since they first met, but her manner aged a good decade more. She was never going to be the all-powerful witch she had been shaping up into, and she would never become a great cleric that brought forces of hell and heaven to their knees. She chose to learn a little bit of everything instead, because _these idiots_ needed a large variety of small daily spells, not a power to bring the sky down. She was leashed and bound to this castle, and she was not going to run away with him to wander in the wilderness if he offered again. In his eyes, it was death premature.

Of course, the paladin had been ecstatic at her choice. What kind of red-blooded man was getting hard at the thought of a woman _praying_? What kind of seasoned commander closed his eyes, blushed and stopped to breathe whenever she leaned over him to bestow a blessing? How did this man even function with so much pent up emotion? Bishop had toyed with the idea of restraining Casavir in some lavish brothel and rocking his world. That would be delicious to make the metalhead discover that he had a body underneath that armour and that after a certain point flesh did not care whose hands delivered the pleasure. Of course, that would be the final thing to do in this keep, because right after the stifled "please" he was confident he could tear away from the paladin's throat he would have to run for his life.

However, he had better fantasies to deal with first. He wanted to fuck Ingrid and to fuck with her in a deeply scarring way. She betrayed her body and her power every moment she had that placid mien on. She was born to drive men crazy, to play with them and dump them at will, to be the seductress and the cruelest lover, and instead she was honestly trying to save the boring lives of sorry _sheep_ around her. For quite some time he had fantasized about keeping her for himself in some faraway cabin so deep in the woods that deer would break their legs roaming there. That dream was clearly impractical, because even if he could capture her and steal her away, her magic made her too powerful to keep as a souvenir safely.

Rape was another plan with consequences. He was not into rape. He had tried it once, and it was too messy and not enjoyable at all. He was good-looking enough to have his share of meat offered to him voluntarily.

No. Now he had another pet dream of his. He wanted her to fall for him, to pine for him, to refuse Casavir for him – preferably, in public, but breaking the paladin's stupid loyal heart when he finally mustered enough deprivation to talk to her in private would do as well. He wanted her to let him do whatever he wanted to her, to welcome his cruelty with passion, to be pushed further and further until she was ready to run from him, and _then _he would tell her the truth and disappear. That would be sweet indeed.

He smirked and crushed the apple in his hand. He knew women like her. Not of her league, but very much like her. He fucked them like he ate grapes, twenty a handful. They all thought he was going to abandon his ways for them. They all needed a sacred quest to dig for his immortal soul. They all fell for his prickly charm and felt compelled to show him love or at least to teach him to bathe properly. Honestly, a kind-hearted woman was her own worst enemy most of the time. Messing them up was fun and they should have been thankful for the education.

The paladin paused in his preparations, and Bishop smirked again. Clearly, the man had been listening for the sound of her steps and his rock-like façade was not without cracks. Casavir turned slowly, and Bishop caught a glimpse of his carefully neutral face and fisted hands. He wondered how much muscle the knight had under the metal plate; he had to be wearing at least two stones of steel on him.

* * *

Ingrid went down into the courtyard and took in the thirty or so people. She stood on the marble steps of the keep and waited while they mounted their horses and Casavir barked his last directions in a low, confident voice that reverberated so deeply in the walls of the courtyard. She thought that if she placed her hand on his chest and he spoke she would feel this deep voice being born. She filed this thought away for some cold winter day in the future. Her gaze ran across the soldiers' shining armour she had paid for from her own funds, and across the beautiful horses all shades of bay. The sun was colouring the thick stone walls into pearls, and the wind carried a distant song of farmhands from the closest field. She smiled at the glowing stained glass windows of the temple, glanced down at the well-fed children peeking out from behind the stable doors, breathed in the smell of fresh bread from the castle kitchens. If it weren't for the shadow of distant war on her mind, she was content. She had never been a strategist, but she was surprisingly good at making decisions about how to do things. She had a talent for understanding what was wrong and what they needed to do to make it right.

Three years ago, this keep had been a charred ruin. She started with the smithy and the armoury, spent King Nasher's borrowed gold on hired safety and persuaded everyone she had ever met to join her here. Her wizarding connections from the academy helped her invite a young druid who consulted farmers about tending to their crops, and her unprejudiced attitude found her many unexpected allies. There was no other castle in the world where the horsemaster was an elf, the coin master a goblin, the castle merchants a cobold and a drow. They were all very committed to their work, as it always happened when talent met recognition before it was too late.

Sand and Aldanon had settled down in the library and she built rooms for them right in it; Khelgar and Neeshka stayed at the inn and bantered with an easy rapport of friends. Qara spent most of her time at the smithy with Edario, charming his weapons and telling him stories, often completely made up ones in order to test how much his awed trust could digest. They all found their small space to breathe here. Casavir especially. Not Bishop, though.

Ingrid felt him staring at her again, and pretended she did not notice him in the shadow of the wall. He was a pain. He should have been so good as the head of her scouts but for his attitude, and she had stopped asking him to go out on missions. Instead, she made sure to seek his advice whenever she had some problem that had the word "forest" in it, and most of the time he could not resist the bait and volunteered in his mocking way that implied they were all incompetent and she had to pay him back in something more precious than gold.

She stood on the steps and watched her people get ready for the ride and the fight. Someone was going to be wounded today, and she had checked with the priest that they had more than enough healing potions with them. Casavir approached her, all reverence and badly concealed anticipation, and she let a warm smile bloom on her lips. One day, he would be hers completely, but he needed to do it on his own terms and when he was ready. She could wait.

The paladin sank to one knee in front of her, and she could see Bishop roll his eyes. She ignored him, touched Casavir's metal shoulders, and said the ritual words. She thought about protection against poison and evil steel, about shields put up in the way of a sword, about arrows missing their soft prey, about life and love and good rest, about them returning whole and alive. She felt the soft, pleasant magic glow, grow inside her chest and rise to her fingers, and she released it to cover the courtyard and sink into her people's skin. She rested her cool palm on Casavir's forehead, and he leaned into her touch. He craved her touch, as he craved any physical contact, unaware of it. She smiled down at him, even though he could not see her face, and lasted her caress slightly longer than it was necessary. His black hair had several silver streaks already. She thought she liked them and pronounced the sealing words of the spell loudly and clearly.

Casavir rose, nodded his thanks and mounted his horse. The ground roared with hooves and in a minute, the courtyard was empty. Ingrid's mind reached out to her raven familiar, soaring high above the keep, and she sent it to follow the riders. She did not have enough rogue stones to make a portal if they needed her help, but she wanted to know that they were all right if they were all right. And Casavir was always secretly flattered by the presence of her raven on his shoulder.

* * *

The day ran its course. In the afternoon she started her rounds as she did weekly. The smithy, the armoury, the granary, the master of coin, the villages' mayors, the temple, the market place, the hospital, the school, the kitchens, the cellars, the stables, the castle barns, the library, the sergeant's report from the night watch, the sergeant's report on the day watch. A greeting here, a few questions there, a kind word to a troubled soul, a raised eyebrow to a lazy worker, requests and suggestions, complaints and some necessary gossip. Bevil's wife is on the family way. The foals need more grain. Look at the larks, m'lady, it is going to rain in the evening. It was important that people saw her, talked to her and talked about her later so that she was present in their lives. Castle walls were only as strong as the weakest people behind them. Loyalty was forged in daily care, small acts of respect, constant awareness of what effect your choices were going to have on the people around you. _If it isn't me being wise today_, she thought with a sad chuckle,_ the_ _peace is turning me soft;_ _I should have ridden with them_.

Divine magic had given her a new perspective. Her former mentors were disappointed, her new mentors were confused, but she had made the right choice. Those cold-hearted wizards did not see Casavir's shattered arm when he threw his shield up in front of her at the last moment; he blanched with pain when she peeled the remnants of the shield off. They did not see that awful gaping hole in Bishop's hip when an orc pinned him to a tree with a spear. They did not know the helpless shame when her fingers prickled with power, but it was destructive and good for nothing. Once, it was she who was bleeding and in pain; Casavir prayed and covered her wound with his callous hands, and as she felt pure compassion flood her and heal her flesh, she knew she was capable of learning that.

Much later, after Sehanine kindly accepted her and even gifted her with occasional clairvoyant dreams, Ingrid learnt that the arcane and the divine addressed her lifelong duality perfectly. She also learnt that her clerical promise made her an acceptable partner for a paladin of Tyr, as the Maimed God did not mind such unions. Casavir did not comment on that aspect of her choice; Bishop probably thought that it had been the true purpose of her commitment from the start.

She noticed that Bishop shadowed her today. He was never close, but he was never really far, always keeping her within eyesight. Perhaps she could deal with him today. As the air grew fresh and the sun was setting, she was finally free of her self-imposed duties. She walked to the small grove she had kept within castle walls for meditation, Elani's sake and medicinal herbs she had had her gardener plant here.

This was one of Bishop's least-disliked places, and she was sure he would follow. She summoned her inner witch's flame to the surface. He often called Casavir a dog, and she did not take offence: a dog was a good, honest animal. Bishop himself was more like a cat – lithe, treacherous, deadly with his prey, asking for a caress and then biting into your hand for serious, to draw blood. Was it wrong of her to blame the man for the crimes he had yet to commit? Her visions of the future were dim and unreliable and ever changing, but he was always there, a key to disasters, a dark harbinger, a blade twisted in her gut.

For several years, Ingrid had hoped he was going to find his peace. Now she was sure that there was no hope for him. The shard of the Sword of Gith in her own chest was not sharp at all compared to the shards of his emotions. He shook them up for entertainment and threw randomly at the people that could be his friends. They left deep cuts.

She watched the grass grow and waited, baiting him to approach. His steps were soundless, but his presence was heavy; it distorted the world around him like a lens. She turned and stepped out of his reach a moment before he could touch her.

"Bishop," she greeted him with a nod. He glared at her through his eyelashes, a wild creature. "I thought I could talk to you."

His face expressed the usual lazy curiosity of a predator. She took him in appraisingly. He was, in a way, striking, she admitted to herself.

"Talking is about the last thing on my mind," he drawled suggestively. _Careful now_, she reminded herself.

"Not right now, no. I suggest you join me for a meal tonight. I have things to discuss with you, and I'd rather hear what you have to say without extra company. Without all the bickering." She added a note of mild annoyance to the last sentence, and he bought it as he always did.

"Make it a meal and a drink, and I might agree to keep you company," he stepped back and rocked on his heels slightly. Relief flooded her. Her trap had shut, and he was unaware of it.

"A meal and a goblet of wine then," She agreed amiably. "Meet me in my suite at ten, after the vigil."

_Of course, the temple vigil,_ Bishop thought angrily. _How could our proud leader live without reeking of incense and wax._

* * *

_Author's Notes:_

This is the first part of a three-part story. This part was comparatively innocent, but the next two will earn their M rating for serious, and as I am exploring the way a wise woman rewards love with love and cruelty with more cruelty, I am going to ask you to proceed with care. I don't like very explicit sex scenes, but sometimes they are necessary.

If you made it so far - thank you for reading. I honestly think the fandom must be buried in their adult lives this long after the game's release, so any comment on the story is going to be a miracle.

Also, I am not a native speaker of English, so if you notice mistakes - don't be too polite to point them out. Please.


	2. Chapter 2 Bishop

Disclamer: I own nothing in this world. Even the atoms in my weird head are rented stardust. Bioware claims to own Bishop and Casavir and Neverwinter Nights; good luck to them. Both the men would definitely have a few things to say about it. So, yeah:

**Chapter 2. Bishop.**

He could not wait until the night. Something was in the air. A summer storm had been brewing all day and erupted at sunset. As he strolled up the stairs to the Captain's chambers, skipping every other step, he looked out into the fields and saw the unpaved road eastwards. It was turning to mud rapidly. He contributed a smug thought to the riders. No warm bed or even a campfire for poor cold paladins out there tonight.

He entered without knocking and was pleased to see a low table set for two. The food was simple, but Ingrid had ordered some meat for him from the kitchens, and the wine was good. She also forwent silverware in order to keep company to his offhand table manners. She wanted him to feel at ease, and he immediately bristled. They ate in wary silence, with barely a few remarks on the weather and the food. All along the meal he kept his eyes on her, boring into her thoughts. She was evidently not bothered by his scowl, and it ignited his desire to push her out of this relaxed calm.

"So. What for did _my lady_ want to have me here tonight?" He toasted her with his goblet and made 'my lady' sound like an insult.

Ingrid met his gaze and sipped at her wine thoughtfully. She had to attempt an honest conversation before… other methods.

"I need your advice. There is an important matter I am at a loss to solve."

He gestured for her to continue and yawned, the bastard.

"There is a man in this castle," Ingrid said simply. "A handsome man, deadly with his weapons and his wit, proud and strong, independent and competent. He could be anything in this castle – the head of my archers, the chief scout, my hand, my trusted friend. But he is restless and reckless, this man. He walks alone and respects no one. Wherever he is, he sows discord and enmity. Whatever I say, he ridicules. I was tempted to send him away, but he does not leave. I was willing to ask him to stay by me, but he does not promise. He prefers to be in a limbo. Everyone is finding their places, and he is discontent with any place I could offer him. I am at a loss. What do you _want_, Bishop?"

He squinted at her and picked at his nails.

"Everything and nothing," He smiled in that uncaring manner of his. "You. Come over here and I will show you what I may want."

She took a long drink of her wine and measured him with such an intense look that he cringed inwardly.

"You keep saying that, and I can't decide if you are serious or not." She rubbed her temple as if he was giving her a headache. _Perhaps it would have been easier to kill him_. "You keep flirting with _everyone _you see, and I think this is simply the only way you know how to talk to a woman. You are not serious."

"I am _very_ serious," he echoed her mockingly and added with mischief. "I even paid a whore to cut her hair in the style you cut yours. And if I started paying, I am serious as hell."

She raised an eyebrow and took another long drink, leaning back. _Casavir did not return, but neither did the raven_, she thought, _he is safe_.

"Then show me how serious you are," she suggested regally. "Undress."

Bishop grinned and rose to his feet in a graceful motion. He took a strategic step to her bed to stand on its background – her chambers were really small, he thought, _such close quarters to be with me, Ingrid dear_. He shrugged off his leathers and sent her a smoldering glance as he touched the ties on his undershirt and pulled it off swiftly. He straightened his back and flexed his shoulders, offering her a full view of his tanned torso.

"The show is free, but touching is going to cost you some reciprocation," he warned her. "And I am getting cold, so think faster. Or, even better, stop thinking."

She stood up and circled him, so close behind him that he sensed her breath on his neck and shuddered in anticipation.

"Oh my, things are finally getting interesting." He remarked slyly.

"Not yet," Ingrid sighed and extended her right hand to the door, snapping her fingers. The door bolt fell into place with a click and magic sealed it. "But they may. I have three conditions, though."

"Like a good witch, you do," He agreed readily. "What are they, you teaser?"

"One. Our arrangement is for one night only. No repeats, no promises."

"Couldn't have put it better myself," He shrugged absently. "Agreed."

"Two," She paused, checking the words for possible misinterpretation. "We reciprocate. If you do something you want, I will do something I want next."

Bishop gave a bark of laughter.

"Ah. Bargaining for gratification." He caught her wrist, brought it up to his lips and inhaled her smell instead. "Don't worry, love, I'm feeling very generous today. Agreed."

Two could play that game and Ingrid was _better_ at it.

"Three," She almost purred as she let her trapped wrist brush against his ribs. She stroked the middle of his chest almost all the way down and gladly noted how his breath hitched. "You will never tell. Anyone. At all."

"I can promise it, but how do you know I will keep my word?" He smirked, leaning into her almost-embrace. She kept her touch feather-light, teasing him into submission.

"You keep forgetting I am powerful," She breathed out to the back of his neck. "I will put a geas on you. You won't be able to say a word about this night. I think I don't even need your agreement at all; however, I'd rather you give it… freely."

He considered her words and realized that at this point he could not care less. He whirled around and trapped her against the wall.

"Bring it on and let us start already," he murmured and ducked his head to lick at the point where her collarbones met. She smiled and pushed him away, but in a playful manner that he recognised as part of the game. He had an idea, and while she let a soft white spell bloom above her palm and whispered to it, he splayed out on her bed and propped himself on his elbows to watch her.

Ingrid released the spell to burst into a swarm of tiny glowing specks. They floated to Bishop and he watched them sink into his skin suspiciously. The geas tickled slightly, and he gave a soft chuckle. It was done then.

"I think it is my turn to command you to undress, Your Ladyship," he suggested.

He watched her unfasten the clasps on her tunic and expose herself to his eyes. The set of her shoulders was proud and stubborn.

"Are you indeed so comely or is it magic?" he demanded, ogling her. She shrugged and with a flick of her wrist the room changed its focus. _True vision_, he made a guess, _this is true vision_. He ran a glance across the room, saw the light blue shimmer locking the door, the glimmer of his leathers on the floor, random swirls of all colours bursting from her desk. The most surprising change was Ingrid herself.

A second ago his eyes had been on a mortal woman; now he saw a radiant magical being. Milk-white glow laved her skin with rippling waves of pure energy. A bright silver fire shone through her flesh just below her neck, and an ugly scar drew a dark crack on top of it. The magical flame inside her seemed to be alive, it moved and swirled and fluttered. _This must be the shard_, he thought with awe, _ah,_ _did we bite off more than we can swallow?_ He shook it off quickly. The most luxurious gems were for the hands that dared to grab them. They sparkled just as nicely in the palm of a beggar as in the crown of a king. The rules of belonging had been made by those who already had everything – thus, they were not fair and were to be neglected.

The true vision faded, and she was but a woman again. His. He felt a pang of longing. Without thinking, he jumped to his feet and in three long strides was on her, grinding into her, pushing her to the bed, pinning her to the sheet. She did not miss a beat, she was eager for him, and he practically growled when he finally claimed her. Manipulation could wait, hatred could lie on its shelf. He had waited so fucking long and she wanted _him_. He brushed his teeth against the point where her neck met her shoulder and the sound of her surprised gasp was music. He bit into her flesh and drew blood, and the metallic taste excited him even more. His movements grew faster and erratic to the point of violence. She seemed to understand his thrill and clawed into his back, found his lips and bit him hard. Pain made it all the sweeter. The game of domination and pretend resistance always made him lose his head, so he grabbed her wrists and pinned them on either side of her head to demonstrate _he could_, but released his grip immediately to support his weight. Then he had no more thoughts and considerations, only a daze of urgency, need and bliss.

As the daze subsided and his head cleared out a little, he rolled off and stared at the ceiling, registering all the small changes in his state and not trusting himself to speak, because whatever he wanted to say so soon afterwards was typically stupid and not his style at all. For instance, he felt a pang of guilt for having been extremely selfish and immediately scoffed at himself that he was expected to be selfish. Also, the night was young, and he could think of many other things to do.

_He needs rest,_ Ingrid reasoned to herself, watching him through her eyelashes secretly, _he has_ _more confidence, than competence, and he kisses like a village boy_. _He is a village boy. And judging by what he had said about villages and villagers in general, he had not had a happy life there._

However, the things she wanted to accomplish today did not let her give him a lot of rest. She turned over and glared at him, attracting his relaxed attention. He chuckled stupidly and turned over to face her, buried his hand in her black mane of curls and pulled her face closer. She smiled inwardly at how drunk he appeared to be and cringed at the thought that she was pleased with his vulnerability. That she was going to use and abuse his vulnerability. She was not going to be proud of herself in the morning.

He looked so young in the exhausted afterglow. The way he wanted to hurt and be hurt to reach it had sent her thoughts down the path of sad recognition. He knew her glare was pretense, but he assumed that unquenched desire lay underneath, while in truth she made her compassion reach out for him and her magic creep into his very bones. _What are you_, she inquired his core silently, desperately, _what has been done to you that the normal paths of trust and loyalty are so broken in you_, _is there anything I can fix; is there anything I can anchor you to; is there any ghost of true feeling in there?_ She gagged at the wasteland and ruin she encountered. So much hatred, so much misery, so many dark thoughts. As soon as he wanted something and could not get it, he found fault with it and crushed the very image in his mind. As soon as he wanted something and got it, it started to taste of ash in his mouth. He hated the very presence of his mind in his head and was tired of his own company. What could she hope to construct of these ashes? She was flooded with his intense dissatisfaction and her prodding was starting to stir the emotions and push them to the surface of his mind. Moreover, the sense of such desolation threatened to bring about her tears. She abandoned her covert violation of his soul and was back into the present again.

She wanted him more tired and more distracted. She gave him a challenging look and kissed his fingers, pulled at his arm, rolled over, draped him over her back. He could not resist and shook off his daze to explore her welcoming body. His hands were slightly alien, but it was a rather pleasant sensation.

"Seeing how you did not shut up for five years, I thought you would be one to talk in bed," Ingrid laughed, and felt his smirk on her skin.

"Is there anything specific you would like me to say? I can tell you of all the brothels I have visited. Or I could talk dirty. I mean, dirtier than usual. Oh, I always wanted to see if I could make you cry when the paladin and the dwarf were not around to bully us out of a conversation."

What a charmer, this one.

"Or I can go take my dagger, have it at your throat and fuck you recounting everyone I killed with it. I am really curious if I can last longer than the list. Actually, I'm even more curious whether it will turn you on or scare you. I bet it will turn you on."

A dangerous animal out of its tethers, and she brought it to her chambers herself.

"Or I could magically shackle you to that wall and see if naked rangers are good target practice for fireballs," She remarked smugly. "Just so you know, I can do it right now, without standing up to look for a dagger."

"My, aren't we angry at some innocent comment to spice up the night." He licked a trace along her spine, and she shivered. "All right, I should not forget that a naked witch costs a fully clothed witch, and naked rangers are half the price."

He was rewarded with a huff of agreement and a gasp, and continued.

"If you wanted some more conservative pillow talk you should have invited the mighty knighty virgin. We could all listen to a fresh story of Old Owl Well –"

She drove her elbow into his stomach, and he choked.

"Don't." She ordered and turned to glare at him over her shoulder briefly, her eyes very large and full of emotion. "Don't you dare make fun of him."

He had evidently touched a nerve, he just did not understand which one. Ah.

'Why?" He rose an eyebrow and placed a kiss on her shoulder blade. "Is the poor smitten paladin so repulsive to you that bringing him up at this time is a stopper? I am sorry then."

"He is twice the man you are." She snapped back into the pillow with menace.

"Aaah, that would be very convincing, my lady, if twice the man had something twice as hard up here," He rubbed against her to make a point. "And he evidently does not."

Self-restraint, and control, and breathe, Ingrid. Don't let him get to you.

"If I knew you wanted him here, I would have invited both of you," She offered dryly, and thankfully he did not notice she was almost shaking. "And he would gladly give you something hard. Like a gauntlet fist in the mouth."

Bishop laughed for real, a low rumbling sound that had reverberated through his bones. She could both hear and feel it. In a flurry of motion, he snatched a pillow and tucked it under her hip, wrapped her waist in his arms, sneaked one hand lower and helped himself enter. She hated to admit he knew what he was doing. After several thrusts she was writhing and trying to meet his every move. He chuckled and kept her in place.

"I know what got you so angry, Ingrid. I did not forget the second condition, don't you worry. Enough of third parties invading our thoughts. Say my name, Ingrid." He whispered hotly in her ear.

"I don't know your name." She parred breathlessly.

"Bishop's the name." He shifted slightly and she struggled to find any words at all.

"That's not even your real name."

"Perhaps; but what do names matter?" He added absently, fully focused on her delicious sounds, bathing his pride in them. "Amuse me, Ingrid."

She gave up and obeyed, again and again, and he was thrilled for some selfish, covetous reason. _Mine_, he thought to himself, not stupid enough to say that aloud. _Mine._ She exploded under his touch and he let himself follow, losing himself in the stolen glory. The wave of heat subsided, and he turned her over to face him, pressed her closer.

Ingrid swallowed and wondered if she was getting stuck in her own trap. She glanced at the open window. _The raven did not return, and he is safe._ She looked at the man that was crushing her in his arms now. His eyes were open, and he misinterpreted the signs.

"You have magic, you close it," He suggested lazily and buried his nose in her hair. "I am not standing up."

"No, it is fine. I was checking if it was open." She responded truthfully and kept the main reason to herself. "And the rain smells nice."

Bishop smiled with his eyes closed.

"Not nearly as nice as you do."

"Gods," She sounded amused despite herself. "I think that might be your first honest compliment."

His eyes flew open and he leaned back to have a better view of her face.

"So you want honest compliments," He said in a strange voice. "I have some. You are beautiful. You are delightfully direct. You are too brave. You are also too generous. You are too clever. You are so beautiful, so very beautiful, beautiful like… I don't know."

Ingrid had almost missed the moment she had been crafting so carefully all night, all because she was too selfish to let her guilt rest until the morning. Now that Bishop was so vulnerable that he babbled, she urged her magic to swell inside and pour out into him. Gently, a trickle of content, peace, safety.

Bishop shut up and blinked, confused at his own feelings. He felt like he was drunk and high at the same time. He felt like kissing her slowly and did. She smiled against his lips, and he soared.

Ingrid thought of all the things to love in her life and directed her love at this poor man pressed flush against her. The love pulsed and demanded to be released into practice. She stirred and ran her knuckles over the dark stubble on his jaw. He almost purred. Her tranquility must be like a drug to him, she thought.

"Thank you," She said quietly. "Now I want to do something to you."

"You will have to wait, cat." His voice had a touch of protest, but his heart was not in it. "I am exhausted."

She sat and ran her fingers across his shoulders, hovered over him, teased him with a small kiss to his forehead. Right where her rising magic concentrated. Pity his eyes were unable to see how beautiful he was in the glow of it. The man he could have been. The man she was shaping up, molding from the ashes, forging from her own force.

"You don't have to do anything, I promise. Rest. I want to make love to you."

He stared at her and opened his mouth, closed his mouth, opened it again.

"You don't love me, do you?"

_A feeble attempt at scorn when you are cloaked in my peace, my Bishop. _

"How can you know?" Ingrid smiled enigmatically and had an urge to reveal part of the truth. Magic was never one-sided. In affecting him, she was affected herself. "I feel like I do".

She straddled him and stroked his relaxed, slightly pronounced muscles. He shook his head in a disoriented way and made a much better attempt at hostility.

"What a night. Revelations after revelations. Next moment you say I am the man of your dreams, and all for a little tumbling in my precious company –"

"Bishop," She interrupted him with a kiss that took his breath away. "Keep_ silent_ now."

He rose his eyebrows, but obeyed, because she somehow managed to rub her whole body against his in one fluid motion, and he had never experienced anything like that. Her hands kneaded his flesh, and she started to whisper wonderful things to him.

"Your body is a miracle," she breathed out, and he felt like one as she trailed kisses across his stomach. "Your chest is golden. Your eyes are smoldering, glowing in the dark. You are a gorgeous forest creature, a predator in his prime, lean and lithe and graceful. Your touch is gentle, and death by your hand is sweet. Imagine the night that covers the fields outside. You are its favorite child. A child of immense beauty and power."

"I think I have proven at least twice tonight that I am definitely not a child." He argued languidly.

"We are all children locked in our adult bodies," She countered seriously. "I am the responsible child with too much independence who always wanted to be needed and keeps looking for ways to sit in the warmth of a very big fire and be part of the story. Casavir is the disciplined child whose natural curiosity and softness were beaten out of him every time he took a step which was wrong in the eyes of his tyrant of a father. He was promised to his god before he was born, a child of duty. What kind of child are you?"

"A hungry one." Bishop bit her neck slightly and stretched like a wildcat, his whole body conveying the air of complete pleasure. Ingrid turned her head and stared at him strangely. Her silent incantation faltered for a second.

"I thought so," she said slowly, and he was suddenly gripped with the fear that his suggestive remark was also a truthful answer by accident. "You have never had enough. You grab and run. Your fingers are long, and your wrists are thin, yet you are not as tall as you could have been. Your light build screams of childhood of near starvation. You know everything about hunger, don't you?"

"All kinds of hunger," he smirked, for some reason unable to deny the truth for once and immediately rationalizing that her sympathy might be the key to her heart. "Ask me whatever you want about it, and I will have the answer. Do you want to know how you start chewing bark and grass and even try mud because plants feed on it somehow? Or do you want a story of going out into the frost to hunt the ghosts of deer you think you saw? Or shall I tell you how a family sells their older son into slavery for a small sack of wheat because nobody will buy the younger children?"

Ingrid embraced him tighter at these words, he noted with satisfaction and abandoned any conscious thought for the sake of pure, unadulterated sensation.

Her net of warm light was complete. It was sinking under his skin, and she stared at the dying glow sadly. He_ was_ a miracle. He _deserved _a better fate. How would she be able to let him go into the darkness and be swallowed by it? What she had wanted to do was done, the man was whole for once, all the missing parts in his soul reconstructed from her own echoes, and she hated the thought of breaking what she had just healed. If she were to keep it healed, he was going to need her as a crutch, every night, every day, and it was not in her power to sacrifice that much for him. There was still some time before dawn, and she made up her mind to give him another gift, another hour of her borrowed magical love.

His consciousness floated on the surface of a vast, peaceful ocean. The ocean moved and sighed and caressed him. It was so mild and placid that a thought ran across his mind: this would be a perfect time to die. Ingrid was there with him. He breathed her like air. She was absolutely, ultimately necessary. She was what kept the ocean peaceful and his mind on the surface. She was the truth, the key, the gods, the force that made everything run. She rocked, and he gasped with the rhythm. She smiled, he sensed her smile on his skin, and fireworks erupted against it. Everything was so far away it did not matter. He was boneless, his limbs weighed nothing. Surreal sensations flooded him and left. He wanted to cry. He wanted to pray. He wanted to laugh. There was no way he was losing her. He had been right to stay all these years. By some miraculous luck he had been more insightful than he trusted himself to be.

As the last wave of pleasure rolled of him, he opened his eyes and gazed into her face. She had tears rolling off her cheeks. He smiled up at her, a trusting, truthful smile, and hugged her tightly. They were silent for a long time.

"Leave with me." He said slowly. "I won't lose you to the King of Shadows now. We can leave the Sword Coast. I will take you to Anchorome, if necessary. I will find the way to other planes, if you want me to. Ingrid?"

Confused, he watched her cry. Ingrid shook her head, and his spirit sank. She cried and cried, and he felt his peace crumble and shatter. He had a vague picture of a charred wasteland lingering in his mind, and was scared to feel it growing, consuming him. His eyes widened in sudden panic, and he clung to her for dear life.

"What is going on –" He started and broke off, shaken. He struggled to find the words, because anger competed in his gut with black, sticky despair. "It was all magic, wasn't it?"

She nodded.

"You don't love me, do you?" He could not help his wish to confirm that.

"I don't. This was … borrowed." Ingrid responded softly.

Bishop took a deep breath and tried to return into his usual self. He managed to reconstruct his hatred, his nonchalance, his undertones and even his smugness at being so quick at it. The only thing that missed was the honest emotion, but he was a master of camouflage.

"You tell me I'm finally stealing something from the paladin, and he won't even know. How invigorating." He sounded completely like himself again, if very tired.

"Do you steal the air you breathe as well?" Ingrid stated calmly, not fooled.

"No. But there is plenty of air."

She smiled at him with that expectant look of womanly superiority men were so afraid of, the look that said that they were waiting for you to make the absolutely obvious connection.

"I bet the paladin would disagree. What would he say if he knew I was here before him and claimed you?" He smirked and ran his hands across her back and to her stomach, cupped one breast and kissed the other. The magic was still there. If only he could tear it from her.

"Casavir knows he will not be my first, as you are not my first. But he will be my last, and that is much more." She answered quietly.

"Can we stop talking about the big, troubled and deprived while I'm doing this?" He complained. It did not work. He needed to sleep. Perhaps if he slept, he could wake up himself. And then get drunk. He wondered if there was enough ale in Faerun to drown _this_.

"I will marry Casavir," She stated calmly, lying in his arms, and he was frightened to admit that it hurt like hells. "I love him. I could love you, too; but you are not a man to love, Bishop. You are a man to bring suffering and pain, a faithless crow who will claw a woman's heart out just to see if it is red and raw as you imagined it."

"Isn't that too dark to say now?" He tried to retort, but she had tricked him fair and square. He was still safely cocooned in her soothing magic, and there was not enough spite in this remark. She had him at her mercy and _she_ was destroying him the way he had planned to destroy her. _Oh, the irony of it_, he thought with bitter amusement.

"It is a dark truth to be said at any moment of our lives, why not lay it all bare now and be done with it?" Ingrid shook her head and kissed the crook of his arm tenderly. "Your heart is black, Bishop. Your core is shattered. The only thing that gives you some temporary comfort is the road, the feeling of walking and walking for miles with a clear, simple purpose in mind. Of all things, you crave death most of all, and you are scared of it most of all. You hold nothing dear because you think you are unable to keep it. And you are unable to keep it because your touch will destroy everything way too soon. You are free to go now."

"Then stop talking, Ingrid, and kill me now," he offered darkly, and it sounded like a really good idea, too. "You are being so generous with deeply insightful insults that I start to believe that murder was what you wanted to do all the way."

"You are not listening to me," Ingrid smiled sadly and inhaled his smell, weaving around him like a treacherous vine. "I am telling you that you are free to leave us now. You've had me, and I understand you need to be on the run to keep the illusion of your peace. Your destiny is to always be hungry. I would gladly feed my people with my own flesh if need be, but nothing will ever make you content."

"Is that what you did tonight?" he inquired acidly and despised the woolen ball in his throat. He wanted to push her off him and was unable to leave her soft aura, so he gripped her closer, almost to the point of pain. "Fed me with your own flesh to give it a try?"

"It is just a body." She answered simply, and he shuddered with humiliation. Again, he had mistaken himself for the hunter, but he had been the prey all this time. "I will belong to Casavir when he asks me. You needed me. This is all I could give you."

She inhaled deeply, steeled her will and delivered the final blow as she stood up from the bed.

"I know you have overstepped a lot of your boundaries in order to help me. Here was your reward. I know you will betray me before this year dies and eat yourself raw trying to understand why. Here is your reason."


	3. Chapter 3 Casavir

Disclamer: I own nothing in this world. Even the atoms in my weird head are rented stardust. Bioware claims to own Bishop and Casavir and Neverwinter Nights; good luck to them. As for Ingrid, you can't claim to own a force like that.

**Chapter 3. Casavir**

A year dies and another year is born. After many travels and misfortunes, she reforms the Sword of Gith. As she admires the silver shards circling around her and assembling into the shining miracle in her hand, she notices the way Casavir looks at her. As if she is a miracle herself and he will lose her at any moment. And this is how she knows he is ready.

He approaches her as they return and asks if they might speak. They walk over the fortifications, and admire the moon together, and he finally pours his heart out into her palms. She accepts him and smiles and asks him to shelter her under his cloak. They exchange a short vow, and their fates are sealed together. She leads him up to her chambers.

He is hesitant. Suddenly, his mature, hardened face is soft and young. He is older by a decade, but Tyr is a strict master, and in this aspect, he is a timid boy inside a powerful man. She helps him strip off his breastplate, his arm pieces, his leggings and all the other shells that clink against the floor. She steps into his embrace and melts into him finally. The feeling of his unprotected skin under her fingers is so divine that she tries to reign in her anticipation for a while. Naturally, she fails.

He touches her sleeve gently, uncertainly, as if asking for permission. She guides his callous, scarred hands to her clasps and laces and folds her fingers around his as they struggle over them. She is patient. She wants him to discover and reveal her body on his own. When the task is done, she takes a step back and allows him to gaze at her and take her in. He seems mesmerized. Desire runs across his face in hot waves, and his cold blue eyes are not cold at all. In a wave of focused, determined motion he lifts her off her feet, hugs her to his chest and in three wide steps reaches the bed. He lays her down gently, as if she is fragile. She beckons him to her, and he follows.

He is reverent and so afraid to crush her, he is hovering over her and she can hear his heart racing. This is sweet. She prompts him to lie back and takes the lead. She loves him so much she wants to cry with the power of the feeling. It blooms in her blood. She rocks slowly. Of course, he does not last. Of course, he has heard enough exaggerated stories to be ashamed of it. We have all night_,_ she whispers to him tenderly as she curls at his side and continues to explore his body. _We have a few months,_ _may be a year,_ she thinks privately, but she does not say it aloud. He already knows.

She does not need words to teach him, but she enjoys telling him about her sensations and watching him tremble at the incredulity of this happening. This science is art, it is very difficult to do it wrong if you have the right intent. A kiss, a touch, a stroke, a caress, and passion is ignited. He is a quick learner. Before long, he grows back into his brave self. He explores her, he reads her gasps and breaths and sweet whispers like a map. His eyes drink her in, and she basks in his love and admiration. They cannot have enough of each other, and even as their hunger is satisfied, they cannot part. She breathes in his sweat and he smells intoxicatingly good. He cradles her in his arms – she is so small compared to his torso – and as she drifts into her dreams and her loving whispers grow fantastical and cease, Casavir feels that his whole soul is taking root in her.

In the middle of the night, she wakes up and sees that he is not asleep. Instead, he is watching her sleep. Their bodies work their magic again, and later she curls up at his chest and he falls asleep with his lips touching the top of her head, his arms entwined around her. As she closes her eyes and listens to his steady, strong heartbeat, Ingrid suddenly thinks about Bishop. _Where are you_, she wonders sleepily. _Are you alive_, she inquires his ghost in her mind.

Little does she know that Bishop is in Merdelain, with the King of Shadows himself. He has just lowered his bow – the bow she had charmed for him. He has proven how deadly he is. He is bargaining his price. He names her, alive, free from the shard inside, and the King of Shadows is amused. He leads Bishop to a flat round mirror. The mirror rests on the table, black waves ripple across its surface, and Bishop is flooded with apprehension. After a short, sharp incantation the emotionless, cold-bloodied, fleshless, passionless creature shows Bishop the two lovers asleep and asks mockingly if this is the woman his new minion desires to own in exchange for his service. Bishop stares at them. He stares at the way she has melted into Casavir's chest like he is able to shield her from all the world, at the way his breath kisses her hair, at their serene faces, at their fingers folded together.

Jealousy, hate and grim determination fill him to the brim. The King of Shadows chuckles and it is crystal clear that the creature has already reached out into his mind and sifts through his memories, prods the worst ones and constructs his future servant's motivation to his liking. Exposed, naked, defenseless, Bishop feels the King of Shadows brush upon the geas that covers _that night _and _the filthy lying beast does not notice_ _it_. Neither the memory, nor the little trapdoor concealing it. Bishop opens his mouth and makes an unexpected decision. He turns back to the creature and demands a different price. He wants to be at his side when the King of Shadows kills these two. He is of course granted this much cheaper price. He pushes his jealousy and hatred to the surface and cloaks himself in them.

Yet deep, deep in his mind he treasures the determination secretly. These two must live. When the hour comes, he will help them slay the shimmering beast. He can already see a gap where his arrow will fit nicely, and an opening for Casavir's hammer, and he can practically smell the raw fear the creature harbours for Ingrid's sword. Until that hour, he will be very good at wearing this mask, the mask of a betrayer.


End file.
